


A Little Death

by Dashboardjuliet



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: A little bit of a praise kink, F/M, Nipple Piercings, Sex In A Graveyard, Vampire AU, all the good things from a vampire au, listen, theres blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:16:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dashboardjuliet/pseuds/Dashboardjuliet
Summary: Nahri has walked the world for a very long time.What happens when she runs into a face she thought she would never see again?
Relationships: Darayavahoush e-Afshin/Nahri
Kudos: 6





	A Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> Sup bitches. This was way longer than I was planning.
> 
> Recommended listening while reading: Little Death by The Beths.

Paris is not the city that Nahri had expected she would settle in, although what a vampire considers ‘settled’ is probably a wide definition. For her, it’s a place that she spends, at least, more than a year in. She’s going on five now, which is the longest she’s stayed anywhere in a while. The last place she can think of… is home. Even now, four hundred years later, she still thinks of Cairo as home. Maybe always will. She’s tried to go back a few times, tries a handful of times each century, but nothing makes her feel her age than being in Cairo. The city has changed too much, the streets that she grew up on, picked pockets and swindled men out of money on, they’re all changed, gone and forgotten or taken over by development. It’s full of too many experiences, the hazy line of reality and memory becomes too close, the overlap leaving her with emotional whiplash, and the overarching feeling of  _ him. _

So she travels, makes sure that she doesn’t stay in one place too long or repeat a place more than once a century. There have been exceptions, of course. Budapest, New York, Moscow, Medina. They all stand out, the few places that she’s spent more than a year in but never longer than three. They’re soft spots in her heart, the skylines almost permanently etched into her eyes. Budapest during the Reconciliation that formed the Austria-Hungary empire, the sigh of relief that the city was finally back in Hungarian hands, honoring Hungarian heritage. New York during the Roaring Twenties, the city alight with lights and heavy with smoke and secret hideaways, Moscow during the Revolution, the singing of the Red Army in the streets. Medina, almost like home, the white minarets of the Masjid al-Qiblatayn, the scent of incense heavy in the air along with smoked meats and spices from the bazaars. Medina sticks out the most. She hasn’t been in at least fifty years, but she can’t help the soft smile that crawls over her face whenever she pictures the city.

Paris though, Paris is becoming a close second to Medina in her mind. She’s acclimatized to it, she thinks, allowed the feel of the city to become ingrained in her bones. Her home is in  _ dix-huitième _ , the 18th arrondissement, where the Basilica of the Sacred Heart stands guard over the neighborhood on top of the  _ butte montmartre,  _ the highest point in the whole city. On her morning walks, she passes the white building crowded with tourists, and it almost feels like she’s looking at the Masjid. At midday, if she can be bothered to leave from the small shop she works in, she goes to the  _ marché Dejean  _ to simply breathe in the mix of spices and let the noise flow over her like water. She’s so old, but sitting in the market with her kinsmen, people that have seen the same sights she has seen and still crave them, it almost makes her feel a little younger. But not much. Because sooner or later one of the old men who sit at the tea shop on the corner of the market, where she sometimes parks herself for hours, will say something that dates them, cements them to a time that she has lived through, and suddenly her age comes rushing back to her. It doesn't necessarily ruin her mood, but it puts a damper on things. Being reminded of her age always does.

So she keeps to herself, save for when she needs to feed. In a city so big, though, there’s never a lacking source. The city comes alive at night, one of the main reasons that she picked it, and men and women both will never say no to a pretty enough face in a dark enough club. People are willing, and rarely remember the events of the night in the following morning. It’s safe for her. Safer, that is. And if Nahri is one thing, it’s safe. There’s a reason she’s survived for three hundred years on her own, and that’s by protecting her own hide. 

But she’s not hungry now, and it’s night and the sky is perfectly clear. So she does what every other four hundred something vampire does on a good clear night: she breaks into a cemetery for some peace and quiet so she can read. 

Cimitière du Nord is the largest cemetery in the arrondissement, third largest in the city, and at night, perfectly quiet due to its large size. The property is huge, built on an abandoned gypsum quarry, and it’s sprawling. Every grave site is intricate and shows off the wealth of the person it stands for. She passes by every one of them till she comes to the grave that she’s looking for.

Élisabeth Leseur had been a mystic in the late eighteen hundreds, someone Nahri had met once or twice in her first stay in Paris. A socialite, for the most part, til she had a coming to with Christ and set about her life’s work of converting her husband from atheism. The Catholic church had beatified her, if she remembered correctly. She’d been polite, and kind, and each time they’d been reintroduced to one another, the conversations had been riveting. Nahri had left Paris eventually, and like everyone that she had ever met, Leseur had died, and she’d not been back to the city since. But her sentimentality had returned and drawn her to visiting someone she would now consider a friend. The crypt she was buried in was a small one, built up rather than out due to the crowding of the cemetery. ‘In Cruce Vita’ scrawled across the top of the marble room in Latin script, and just on the doorway, a picture of the woman herself. Smiling fondly at the portrait, Nahri sat down next to it, back against the oxidized copper doors of the crypt, and opened her book to read.

She made it maybe a few lines, eyes barely able to take in the words on the page, before the shuttering click of a camera draws her from her book. Her gaze drifts from the book to take in her surroundings, but seeing nothing, lets her attention return to the page. Until it happens again. This time, she shuts her book entirely, pushes herself off from the step she’s settled herself on, and actively looks for the source.

It doesn’t take her long to find him because, like her, he sticks out like a sore thumb in an empty cemetery at midnight. She’d come here for peace and quiet, and to have it disrupted by someone taking pictures leaves her a bit angry. Not stomping, but footfalls a bit less careful than normal, Nahri approaches him, trying to make herself obvious.

“Hey can you like, I don’t know, give it a break or go somewhere else? I’m trying to read.” She waves the book to emphasize her point, but as he stands and takes the camera away from his face, she drops the books to her side, almost taken aback. He is unchanged, just like her. The tears that well up in her eyes are uncontrollable. Her body wants to act on instinct because  _ he’s here _ and she thought he was dead but  _ here  _ he stands. 

Dara is still beautiful, in a way she never fully expects. He’s still tall enough to make her tilt her gaze upward just a bit, with a tan skin almost as dark as hers. He’s wearing a leather jacket, perfectly worn with a black henley underneath, paired with ripped and faded black denim jeans. His black hair is coiffed, tossed over one shoulder and the perfect length for grabbing. She swallows at the thought. His eyes haven’t changed, which is a relief. They’re still the startling shade of green they were when they met centuries ago, now lined by a thick swipe of kohl, but what stops her in her tracks are the tattoos. They’re new. At least, new since she’s seen him last, at his… well not death obviously. Three tear marks trail under one eye, and the word ‘Scourge’ underneath the other. His knuckles are dotted, an intricate pattern of swirls and dots that were obviously done by hand, not by tattoo gun. The one that draws her the most is the piece on his neck, encompassing the area left bare by the henley all the way up to his chin. It’s a lion, or some type of big cat, jaws open wide to show off an array of white teeth that stand out against the black detailing. Underneath the head are wings spread wide, feathers puffed out like they’re ready to take flight. The space in between is filled by flowers of every kind, but the one that catches her eye the most is one that she hasn’t seen in years. Tucked gently into the background, barely there against the curve of his jaw, she can make out petals of the Egyptian river lotus, and her heart constricts.

“Oh, uh, sorry. I really didn’t think that anyone else would, um, be here.” He even sounds the same too. His accent is still heavy, a lilt to his speech that her body naturally marks as ‘home’. He sounds like home. She takes an instinctive step closer, but she reigns herself in because something is obviously wrong. He doesn’t remember her, doesn’t call her by her name. He’s her maker, for God’s sake, and if he doesn’t remember that, well, she doesn’t want to think about it. The memory of the night she thought she lost him is always in the back of her mind, of the blood, his  _ head _ hanging halfway off his body and the way she had  _ screamed _ at the sight. 

“You’re… fine. You’re fine, sorry. Just, keep it down, if you could.” Her voice has lost any harshness, falling back to its default calm tone. He must note the change because he straightens, shoulders pulling just a bit backwards. It’s a pose that she remembers him making so often, puffing his chest out with pride when she laughed at one of his jokes, or felt he needed to go on the defensive. 

“Yeah, of course. Sorry.” 

“Okay. Thanks.”

“No problem.” He says, and she turns away, heading back to Élisabeth’s grave. It’s not a far walk, her feet carrying her on autopilot back to the stoop that she’d been sat on. 

The problem now is that her body is actively aware that there is someone else in the cemetery with her, someone that comes from the same place she did, someone that she knew, someone that her body remembers  _ all too well _ . Her fangs are only slightly extended, but she can still feel them enough, how the sharp peaks of them have started to push into the soft flesh of her lower lip, not hard enough to pierce yet but getting there. It’ll be impossible to read now. She sighs, lets her head fall back against the cold marble and stares up at the empty sky, thinking of her options now. Home is always the first option, but her flat doesn’t feel appetizing right now. She wants company, people, to be surrounded by heat and warmth, heartbeats palpable in her ears. It’s the sudden hunger speaking, she knows this, but she’s also not one to deny her hunger when it strikes. That’s when she gets dangerous. In the background behind all her thoughts, the shuttering of the camera persists. Her eyes close, and she listens to it. Wonders what in the world has captured his attention so much that it demands multiple takes of it. She keeps them closed, even as the shuttering stops, and even still when she can feel the vibration of his heavy footsteps against the pathway, coming toward her. He’s coming to her. Opening her eyes, she watches him approach.

“Hey… I just realized I didn’t catch your name.” He says as he adjusts the camera strap around his neck.

“You want the name of a random woman you met in a cemetery?”  _ You already know it but here, you can have it one hundred times again.  _

“I mean, we’re both in a cemetery so I think we’re on pretty even ground, wouldn’t you agree? I’m  Dara.” God, he’s still using the same name. Briefly, she wonders how he could still remember that but not anything else, but her confusion is muddled underneath the way her body sings because it’s still  _ Darayavahoush.  _

“Nahri. I’m Nahri.” He takes her hand as she speaks, and his grip is warm and solid. She gets a better glance at his hand tattoos, noting the evil eye at the center of the swirling design.

“Just Nahri?”

“Just Nahri.”

“Well ‘Just Nahri’,” The way he says her name makes her smile, makes warmth spread through her chest, and a hunger she hasn’t known in a while come alive in her stomach. “Do you want a beer? I’ve got a spiced beer they only sell in the  _ marché.” _

“Do you make a regular habit of drinking in graveyards by yourself?” She asks as they walk back to his spot, away from  Élisabeth’s grave to the grave he’s been photographing, a smile creeping its way onto her face when she sees the sight that he has set up. There’s a skull, aged and tarnished to look real, surrounded by halfway melted candles.  _ How dramatic of him. _

“Not usually, but I’m not alone now, am I?” He smiles back at her, and she’s forgotten entirely how she can’t resist him when he smiles. His lips pull tight in the corners, devilish, like he’s always about to say something dirty. It makes her squirm, her insides alight with butterflies, to see it again after centuries of missing it, seeing it only in her dreams. He hands her a beer and she takes it, making sure to let their fingers brush during the exchange. A simple touch, but it’s enough for her to jolt, and for him to show a similar reaction. 

“Your hands are pretty cold. How long have you been out here?”

“Really? I feel like I haven’t been out here long, but I’m prone to losing track of time.”

“Yeah, they’re freezing, come over here.” He holds out his empty hand, and for a second she’s unsure of what's going to happen, but she puts her empty one in his, allowing him to pull her in close, bringing their joined hands up to his mouth. And then he breathes, breath hot against her cold flesh. It won’t do much in terms of heating her up, but the shiver that rushes up her spine is unmistakable. His eyes move from their hands to her face, half lidded and sparkling. “Does that help?”

“You don’t even know.” Her throat is dry and she tries to swallow to fix the problem, but she knows it won’t do for long. She drops her gaze from his eyes to his neck, covered in beautiful swirling ink, the white of egyptian lilies standing out beautifully against his skin. “What are they? The flowers?”

“Oh! On my neck?” He asks and without letting her hand go, he cranes his neck back to bare it to her, showing off the ink to its full potential. “They’re lilies, they grow on the Nile back in Egypt. I’ve spent some time there and couldn’t get them out of my head. They, uh, remind me of someone.” Her heart stops.

“Who?” She moves closer, playing like she’s inspecting. Taking her hand from his, she brings her fingers up to trace the ink slowly, and when she reaches the point on his neck that she’s looking for, she stops and lets them stay there. Underneath her fingers, his pulse is slow, far too slow for a regular human. Slow, like  _ hers.  _ She preens with the satisfaction that even if he doesn’t fully remember her, he’s still the same. That, she can work with. If he had been human again, somehow, it would have changed the plan rolling through her head.

“This is gonna sound ridiculous,” He chuckles, and under her touch his throat vibrates, “but I don’t actually remember.”

“You got a tattoo for someone you don’t remember?” If she could, she’d die again. He’d always been a sentimental one, but she hadn’t expected him, her maker and chosen partner for the rest of their time, to permanently alter himself in her name. It feels as if her heart has stopped all over again in her chest. Letting her fingers trace again, she moves them down to his shoulder and leaves her grasp there.

“I remember a few things. I remember she was important to me, and that she was from Egypt. I remember they were her favorite. I just can't remember her.” The defeat in his voice propels her forward, unable to resist any longer.

There are a few perks about being a vampire. She can count them on one hand, but in the moment, she’s extremely grateful for the gifts that she received from him four hundred years ago. Extreme speed is one of them. It doesn’t feel fast to her, but the way his eyes widen means that it is to him. Her mouth is at his throat, fangs extended, and it only takes a minute for her to bite, deep, working her mouth further and further down into his flesh. The blood that pulses into her mouth gurgles, and a choked sound comes from his mouth. Normally, it would break her heart to hear him make that noise, but she has a bigger goal right now, and making him remember is a higher priority than his comfort. She bites deeper, trying to push her lips closer to his skin to get the seal just right. Necks are impossible to drink from, and she rolls her eyes at the extra work it takes before her lips get just the right fit, and her fangs meet their final mark.

His blood is still cool, colder than a normal human, and it doesn’t quench the thirst that her body is craving, but it quiets it. He’s struggling, and if she were human he’d probably have a good fighting chance. His body, though, seems to have forgotten his strength, his  _ true _ strength, so she still has the upper hand. Her mouth stays locked on his, and the hand that is not cupping the back of his neck to draw him closer, snakes around his waist to pull the rest of him flush against her body. His knees lock, she can feel, and the hand pushing against her grows faint. She drinks, swallowing again and again till his full body weight is leaning against her, yet she can still feel his pulse moving slowly, so so slowly. Only then does she pull away, her lips releasing from his skin with a wet pop. She can feel the blood slowly dripping down her chin to her neck, but she doesn’t move to wipe it away. Bringing her wrist to her mouth, she bites down hard, breaking the skin.

It’s a long shot, trying to jumpstart him, but it’s the only shot she’s got. Four hundred years ago he’d done something similar to her, drained her body to just the tipping point, and then fed his blood to her, putting a piece of him inside her that would always remain. He’s always been there, in her blood, and now her only hope is that whatever is still him in her, wakes the rest of him back up. Tilting his head back, she brings her bitten wrist to his mouth, pushes his lips back with her hand, then slides the bloodied flesh right into his mouth. Time feels frozen as she waits, watching his throat for movement, for a swallow, a lurch,  _ anything. _ Desperation seeps into her heart as she pushes her wrist further into his mouth.

“Please Dara.  _ Drink.”  _ She whispers. They’re not supposed to be drained that close to emptiness, she knows, but she had no other idea. “ _ Please.” _

Forever seems to pass, and she’s about to drop her wrist, tears streaming down her face in defeat, when she feels it. The barest swallow, a faint piercing feeling in her skin that stops her in her tracks. His eyes are closed but her gaze is glued to them, watching even as she finally feels his fangs rip into her skin. He had never been the cleanest eater, and the grip his mouth has on her wrist feels savage, but the relief that floods her body overshadows any sense of vague arousal that’s slowly starting to build in her.

“That’s it,  _ yes _ , take whatever you need. You’re doing so good, so good.” She’s mumbling, feeling the air between his deep swallowing and the crickets chirping. Her spare hand strokes the back of his neck, fingers knotting in his long hair, while his hands come to grasp her wrist, holding it in a death grip closer to his mouth. He releases, then bites again, deeper.“ _ That’s it,  _ love, keep going.” She’s practically moaning her words, allowing herself to finally feel what her body needs her to feel.

Whether it’s the amount of blood that he’s drank, the quiet praises that she keeps whispering, or the consistent pattern her fingers are following in his hair, she doesn’t know, but his eyes slowly flutter open. His gaze is glassy, unfocused, and the grip she has on the back of his neck tightens when it finally drifts to her. He doesn’t release his bite, but his gaze narrows, focuses,  _ clears,  _ and then widens. Recognition crawls across his face slowly, but they’re standing so close that she can see it clearly: the way his face slackens, his mouth falls away from her wrist, his eyes remaining blown open wide. His pupils are huge, taking her in,  _ drinking her down. _

“Nahri?” His lips are stained with her blood, and he keeps his grasp on her wrist steady, but his face is already moving closer to hers.

Her composure, or whatever of it she had left, shatters at the sound of him saying her name like that, like the prayer of a dying man who’s been given a second chance at life. She cries out, sobs, breaks down and pulls her bleeding arm from his hands so that she can throw it around his neck, joining the other in a tight hug that she’s not willing to let go.

“Gods,  _ Nahri _ !” His voice is loud in her ear as he returns her hug, hands weaving around her midsection to hold her tight. It’s almost too tight, but she will never again complain about the way he hugs. His hands lower, gripping her ass to hoist her up, and she lets him, wrapping her legs around his waist.“ _ Nahri _ , my Sweet, Love of my Life, my  _ Nahid _ .”

He pulls away from her only to start peppering her face with kisses, on her eyelids, cheeks, temples, her nose. It’s sloppy, dragging his bloody lips all over her skin, but she’s already a mess, tear tracks rolling down her cheeks and blood still staining her chin, but he doesn’t seem to mind the mess. His mouth moves to her chin, tracing the path of her jawline to her neck, fluttering over to suck on her pulse point. She cranes her head back, lets him do whatever he wants because  _ he’s back _ . His fangs are still there, dragging against her skin, but he doesn’t bite, just leaves love marks and shivers in their wake.

“Nahri, I… I need you. I need to be  _ in  _ you.” He pants into her throat, nose nuzzling into the crook of her neck, and she can feel it now easily, her legs spread around his waist and the hardness there stuck between them. She’s in a similar state, easily, and can feel how wet she is between her legs, how soaked her underwear are against the rough fabric of her jeans. 

“Yes,  _ yes. _ ” Her nod against his hair is an unconscious movement, but her words aren’t. She needs him,  _ desperately,  _ inside her, thrusting over her,  _ into  _ her. She needs it all. Her moaned words are all he needs before he’s reaching down between them, unbuttoning his jeans, sliding them down enough to free his cock, head already red, weeping clear drops of precome. “God, Dara, look at you, already so hard for me.”

“All for you.” He whispers against her neck as he puts her down to allow her to shuffle out of her jeans as quickly as she can. They end up crumpled on the dirt path, and then she’s laying down against the earth, pushing her soaked underwear out of the way and spreading her legs wide to show off her dripping cunt. His eyes are glued to her as he strokes his cock loosely. They stay that way, staring at each other in a limbo like state before slowly, so slowly, Nahri drags two fingers through her wet slit, and that’s all it takes to have him spring into action.

He’s on her quickly, inside her even faster, and she can’t control the bodily reaction of arching her back, throwing her head back in a breathless moan at the sudden intrusion in her body. It’s not unwelcome, but she hasn’t exactly been sleeping around. She’s tight, she knows, and the way he’s panting against her throat let’s her know just how much he’s affected by it. Unintentionally, she clenches down around him, and his head drops to her neck to mouth at it.

“ _ Move _ , Dara, move now.” She whispers in his ear, and he does as she asks, thrusting shallowly in and out of her, as if he’s getting used to the feeling of being inside of her again. It’s what she’s doing too, moaning at the feeling of him dragging against out of her then back in again. He starts slow, hands pushing up underneath her shirt to grab at her breasts, fingers tracing over her pierced nipples under her thin bralette. She arches into his hands, and her response to his touch spurs him onward. He pulls the shirt up over her breasts and brings his mouth down to one of them, sucking at her nipple over the fabric, playing at the metal barbell with his tongue.

“Faster, Dara, you’re doing so good. You feel so good, my love.” Her words leak out of her mouth in a breathy moan, and he complies to what she’s asking, thrusting into her faster, pounding her into the dirt. They move back and forth together, digging a rut into the dirt from the force of his thrusts. She’s getting close, and so is he, she can tell by the stuttering of his hips.

“I’m… Nahri, I can’t—” He starts, taking his lips away from her nipple to speak, but he doesn’t need to. She understands. Using a hand to push his head back down to her breast, she shushes him and nods.

“Bite me Dara. Can you do that? Bite me so hard, and then you can come, okay?” He nods against her chest, and barely a moment passes before he latches back onto her breast again, the same one that’s already soaked, and bites through the fabric and into the flesh of her breast, and then  _ drinks.  _ It’s enough for her, the sensation of him pulling from her in both places, to make her clench down around him and see white. She cries out, hands coming up to hold his head to her chest while he moves faster, thrusting in and out of her, the wet slapping of his balls against her the only sound filling the air outside of their panting. Then he’s coming too, surging as deep as he can go inside of her, drinking hard before his lips release from her so he can release a strangled moan. He collapses on top of her, then, and the weight of him pushing her down into the dirt is one she wholly welcomes, a feeling she thought she would never get to experience again.

Their both panting, and her hands are carding through his hair while his tongue slowly laps at the bleeding bite mark around her nipple. When the nursing of his bite finally stops, he tilts his head upward to stare at her, green eyes glassy with tears again. She knows she’s in a similar state because she can feel the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

“Nahri, I’m so sorry I left you for so long. I just, I couldn’t remember.” She shakes her head to shush him.

“We have eternity together, Dara. A few centuries alone is nothing compared to the rest of history spent with you. I’m just glad you’re home.”

And he is, home, that is. Because she is too, can feel the certainty in her words. 

He’s never leaving her again.

  
  



End file.
